


The Men of Alchemy and Night

by Telephonoscope



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Gen, Johnlock eventually, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 06:26:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Telephonoscope/pseuds/Telephonoscope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes, rogue alchemist and consulting detective, is becoming absorbed in what he finds in the dark corners that Fae and Human alike wish never existed. John Watson, former Captain of the London Town Militia has landed himself a new flat and a job as Sherlock's partner, a career move oddly enough not only sanctioned by DI Lestrade of New Scotland Yard, but also by Sherlock's mysterious older brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't beta'd or Britpicked. Feel free to chime in if you'd like. Concrit greatly appreciated!
> 
> I don't have an outline for this, or really any idea at all what I'm doing. Just a warning! :D
> 
> (Sherlock is autistic, but that's the way he is on the show so there's no real difference in how I write him (I don't think).
> 
> I'll update tags, characters, and relationships as the story progresses.

Overhead birds wheeled, the soft brush of wings moving them in slow ellipses. Empty food tins clattered and rolled down the mountainous rubbish as Sherlock made his way upwards. He paused to watch, blinking against the sudden stabbing light that reflected off a tin that bounced on a rebar outcropping, somersaulting up and out before continuing on its journey.  
  
The sun was too goddamned bright and he’d had a headache since that morning. Anything in the dump that had the slightest chance of glittering was positively radiating in the hateful spring sun, making his task all that more dangerous. Keeping safe while partially blinded - not the easiest thing to do.  
  
There. To his right and slightly above his head was a hideously bejeweled metal lighter, smaller than his thumb. Rubbish avalanched behind him. His footing slipped a little causing him to panic just a bit and hastily reach up and snatch at his goal. The dump was unhygienic at best and fatal at worst. He had no great urge to contract an illness or invite death to his doorstep.  
  
 _Botulism. Broken limbs and fractured skulls. Toxins. Poisons. Insects. Rats._  
  
Glass popped under his feet and he was grateful yet again for the boots he'd purchased at the price of several months rent and were proving to be worth every bit of it. If nothing else he'd avoided several close encounters with broken toes and managing to cause damage to certain unsavory sorts with the hidden steel caps. Really, the only thing he prized more in a material way was the posh but leaning towards ragged military style greatcoat that was rumored to be permanently sewn onto him.  
  
A shadow passed over him, bigger than before. The birds were getting lower, their forms still small enough to be eclipsed by a hand held to the sky. Distantly the high kree of their voices could be heard. No doubt they hungered and grew impatient as birds of prey were wont to do. He needed to leave.  
  
Glancing about he quickly registered a decently clear path around the side of the hill he stood on. How to get over there though? A rotted metal frame of bed springs lay between him and escape. It was so large that the thought that it must have been the Queen's caused Sherlock to laugh quietly. Piled high to either side of the mattress was rubbish of varying types of sharp.  
  
Sherlock whirled as something lightly brushed the back of his neck and almost teetered over backwards into the Queen’s rusted death trap. A black feather with an oily rainbow sheen to it fluttered to his feet. _Shit._ It was not a primary feather and it was not the feather of an adult, yet it was the length of his entire forearm and hand combined. The mattress had distracted him and now it was too late.  
  
Quickly he stooped and plucked the feather off of a dented stainless steel microwave that had nearly sunk entirely into the ground. Without looking he shoved the feather haphazardly into the large bag he had slung across his chest, followed by a now thoroughly filthy pair of blue nitrile gloves. If he was lucky he’d get to study the feather later. Highly doubtful.  
  
He pressed his palms together with his fingertips touching the underside of his chin in a habitual movement of contemplation and looked up. And up. The rukh was nestled at the very tip of the nearest pile. It was amazing how quiet it had to have been to land without Sherlock hearing it. Even with the enigma of the bed forefront in his mind Sherlock still should have noticed the displacement of half of London’s castoffs flying about.  
  
The massive bird did not move. It did not twitch. Sherlock realized that he had stopped breathing and gasped, bending at the waist in a greeting. He had no idea how to greet a bird six times his size. Was it even sentient? He'd done little research on the beasts, never thinking he'd have the opportunity to meet one. It’s slender head was cocked to the side, watching him out of a single eye the size of Sherlock's head. The sharp hook of its beak gleamed and it's feathers seemed picked out by the sun purely to prove the raptors beauty. Sherlock needed no help in seeing that, nor the danger that the bird offered.  
  
An urge to joyfully bounce overcame Sherlock. He quelled it with pure willpower - who knew what the rukh would make of the movement and a shifting morass of rubbish wasn't the best place for unplanned movements.  
  
“Hello?” Sherlock tried, thinking it was only logical that if a creature out of myth and legend would deign to have an interest in him it would probably speak English, and if it didn't he knew several other languages fluently and even more conversationally. It was a simple matter of trial and error.  
  
The bird just breathed and flicked its head to study him with the other eye, black and shimmering.  
  
Sherlock was considering alternative languages and possible escape routes when a loud whump sounded directly behind him causing him to dive forward and turn, his Browning pointed towards another rukh - a fledgeling. It was lying unceremoniously on its back, feet straight up in the air, caught in the springs. Loud shrills of what could only be irritation and perhaps fear filled the air. The smaller bird rocked from side to side and back and forth like a flipped tortoise.  
  
Perhaps he should help? The rukh, now morphed into a mewling bed-monster, was blocking the only way out of the little valley Sherlock was in. The particular pile he’d climbed had been disturbed enough on his trek up that he didn't want to risk going down the way he'd come up. He'd also noticed an evil looking pond of an olive colored substance that seemed to like to nibble at whatever touched its acidic surface. Climbing around it without sacrificing his boots hadn't been easy. Best to avoid whatever ecological hazard _that_ was.  
  
Soft clucks began to emerge from behind him that grew into a loud “Ah! Ah! Ah!” A look confirmed that the elder rukh’s posture had changed. Before it had been studying Sherlock - now its beak gaped open and an eye was on the fledgeling. It was laughing and Sherlock was quite proud of himself for realizing that. He wasn't the best at judging the emotional involvement of others and to have successfully interpreted the feathered monolith’s amusement was a high point for an already quite fulfilling day.  
  
The rukh continued to laugh, interspersing it with words. English, just as he had thought.  
  
“Up! Child! Up! Up!”  
  
“Can’t!” the fledgeling squawked petulantly and rocked again.  
  
“Up! Now!”  
  
“STUCK!”  
  
The bigger bird seemed to deflate a little. “You help!”  
  
Sherlock realized that the birds attention had returned to him. “I hardly think that’s a good idea. What’s to keep it from eating me?”  
  
“WILL NOT!” cried the smaller bird.  
  
"Help now!"  
  
"Argh! Fine! Just - just give me a moment!"  
  
With little choice Sherlock slipped on his leather gloves and carefully worked his hands under the million times too large fledgeling. It’s struggles to right itself had caused its wings to become even more wedged into the springs. Sherlock couldn't tell but he had the feeling that more than a few were piercing through the dense feathers and into flesh.  
  
The rukh was well and truly stuck. Sorting through his bag by touch while he kept his eyes on the bird, he found the pair of metal clippers he nearly always brought to the landfill for occasions not quite as extraordinary as this one. Carefully he cut the bed’s guts apart, maneuvering each broken spring out hoping against hope that he wouldn't be stuck in turn. He didn't have the time to seek out a tetanus jab.  
  
Suddenly, with a wild jerk of it’s wings the fledgeling was free and on it’s feet, ebony beak close enough to snip off Sherlock’s nose. They breathed, chests rising and falling in tandem. The rukh had said “will not” but Sherlock was thinking a most emphatic _will_. Oh yes. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, murdered by an overgrown turkey. Lovely.  
  
A slight flinch was all that betrayed Sherlock's fear when the bird moved. It began to flap its wings, building up a furious wind, unable to to keep the air around it calm as the elder rukh had. Sherlock blocked his face with a forearm and stumbled out of the way as the smaller bird began to rise with the edge of the mattress clamped in it’s claws. He turned and watched the bigger raptor join the smaller in carrying the mattress. Together they hauled it out into the dunes of filth where Sherlock watched it drop from the sky and disappear behind the rise of another rubbish mountain. The birds were gone and his way was clear. Slipping his phone out of his pocket he quickly tapped out a message.  
  
 **I've got the lighter. Took longer than I thought. I was a bit delayed. -SH**  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No beta, no Britpicker

Captain John Watson, formerly of the London Town Militia, sat patiently, sipping at his cappuccino while waiting on the Met contact that was now exactly half an hour late. He'd worked with the police before, their efforts to keep the metropolitan under control constantly intertwined with the Militia's own goals. He was no stranger to a sudden call to action that left your schedule thoroughly fucked. The contact would arrive sooner or later.  
  
The young barista chatted with him casually as she wiped the few small round tables in the shop clean. People had come and gone but no one had sat other than him, so she was no doubt working from a list of chores. The bell over the door rang and she hastily scurried back behind the counter as a handsome man with silver hair gazed up at the rather daunting board of choices.  
  
"Uh - what's a blended drink?"  
  
"Two shots of espresso, add the flavor of your choice, and then it's blended with ice and soft serve."  
  
"So, it's a coffee milkshake?"  
  
"Kind of," laughed the barista. She leaned in to whisper conspiratorially. "Chocolate is the best. Especially if you add coconut flavor."  
  
"I'll have that then."  
  
" _That_ is a dessert not even trying to masquerade itself as a drink," John remarked after the man had paid and sat in the chair opposite.  
  
"Exactly. My sweet tooth can not be denied, Captain Watson."  
  
"And you would be DI Lestrade?"  
  
"The one and only. Sorry I'm late, something urgent came up and then I played a lot of hurry-up-and-wait."  
  
John considered the man for a moment. "I wasn't given a lot of information beyond the Met needing someone with my particular credentials and that all of my needs and a few of my wants would be cared for. I can't imagine why you would need an additional sharp shooter on your force that also happens to have a military _and_ medical background."  
  
"I have a ... consultant that needs a bit of help, and it wouldn't be the Met you're working for."  
  
"What kind of consultant?"  
  
"Well, he would tell you that he is the world's only consulting detective. We mainly use him when we're in over our heads and the powers-that-be don't feel that the case warrants the attention of the spooks. It happens quite a lot these days." Lestrade leaned back, looking directly into John's eyes. "I can't tell you much, but I can tell you that a man with a 'minor' position in the government is very concerned for his little brother."  
  
"Witness protection?"  
  
Lestrade chuckled, "Nothing like that and Sherlock Holmes wouldn't stand for it. If anything we need to protect people from _him_."  
  
"He's dangerous then?"  
  
"I wouldn't say that. He's got a temper and he can make you feel like a five year old with your finger stuck in a socket within minutes. Generally he can take care of himself - knows how to box, fence, and I think Kung Fu or Judo or something. I wouldn't trust him to cook, though. His specialty is burnt water."  
  
"I'm not sure I understand." Why would the Militia view this as a something he'd be interested in? The shot to his shoulder decommissioned him rather spectacularly, but this was starting to sound like a desk job.  
  
"Let's just say that our consultant goes places where the Met isn't wanted and he's understandably tetchy about the subject of his brother trying to find him a bodyguard. Calls them his nannies. In my opinion his brother is wrong. Sherlock doesn't need a babysitter, he needs a partner. He has access to people that would hide before they ever came to me with their troubles, but their trust in him doesn't make him any safer. He's made enemies. Neither his brother or I can come to his rescue when he's with the Fae, and I expect that the Militia have their hands rather too full to deal with a single man when he goes adventuring."  
  
The Fae. That explained a lot. "If he doesn't want a bodyguard how am I to convince him otherwise?"  
  
"Well, you won't be his bodyguard will you? You'll be his flatmate. He ran the last one off just last week." Lestrade's smile was large and rather Chesire cat-like.  
  
"Seriously? You expect me to just move in with a man I don't even know and that you just admitted is a menace?"  
  
"I'd imagine a nice Victorian house, with your own room and a sweet landlady shoving biscuits down your throat would beat the Militia's barracks any day."  
  
"Are you lying about the biscuits?"  
  
"I would _never_ lie about biscuits, Captain Watson."  
  
  
***

The landlady let them in and John followed Lestrade up the stairs to the first floor of the nice Victorian house he'd been promised.  
  
"There are absolutely no illegal substances on the premises, Lestrade. Unless you want to arrest me for daring to own bleach and ammonia at the same time?"  
  
"That actually is a little concerning. You do know not to mix them?"  
  
"I'm not an _idiot_."  
  
Lestrade hadn't been joking about Sherlock's attitude either. The open door off of the landing led straight into a sitting room that was strikingly bohemian and filled with skulls. John liked it.  
  
Sherlock, entered from what looked to be the kitchen, his black suit layered with a stained white apron that covered him from neck to knee. In one hand he held a burning butane torch and in the other an oddly long clamp was supporting a test tube that was glowing faintly. Safety goggles crushed Sherlock's dark haphazard curls to his head and John was _this_ close to laughing at the absurdity of it all.  
  
"It's perfectly safe," Sherlock reiterated, flicking the torch off. "I'm clean."  
  
"Keep moaning about it and I'll have a substance bust on you. Sherlock, this is Captain John Watson. Your flatmate predicament made me think of him."  
  
"Really?" Now Sherlock's full attention was on John, but he spoke to Lestrade. "You've never mentioned him before. In fact, his posture tells me that he doesn't know you at all. What's going on?"  
  
The question may have been to the inspector but John felt the need to step in. He'd have to show he could hold his own. "He knew _of_ me through some acquaintances. Networking - that sort of thing. I need a place to sleep is all. I won't take up much space."  
  
A short huff and Sherlock turned back into the kitchen. The chink of thin glass being settled rang in the silence and then the man was back sans apron and curious chemistry equipment, arms crossed and a petulant expression on his face. "Did Mycroft put you up to this, Lestrade? I am in need of someone to share the bills with, not a person to yip at my heels about whether I eat or not."  
  
" _Sherlock_!" Lestrade barked, a note of command to his voice that John recognized from his days in the military. "Your brother had no part in me introducing this man to you. I am not Mycroft's errand boy. I thought he'd be helpful, but there's no use in pretending that having John in your life wouldn't help with your brother's concern-"  
  
"Mycroft has concern for no one except for himself," Sherlock interrupted.  
  
John straightened his spine and took two steps forward, putting himself slightly in front of Lestrade and the tiniest amount into Sherlock's personal space. "I was told that you go where few other humans dare to go and that your safety is a priority."  
  
Sherlock was working himself up to a rage, eyes wide, flecks of spittle shone in the space between them. "I don't need anyone to keep me safe."  
  
Head cocked to the side, John quickly considered what little he knew of the man before him. How to fix this situation that had evidently been brewing for a long time - possibly years. He licked his lips, chapped as always. "No, I don't think you do. You need a partner. Someone to stand at your back, looking up so you can look down. A person that will lend you their talents to help you finish what you need done. Am I right?"  
  
The ripples of expressions that fought across Sherlock's face was priceless. John thought he saw shock, admiration, disgust, and possibly even fear. Within seconds his face had smoothed and only the clear gray eyes showed any emotion at all and it was unidentifiable. "You're medically trained. Military, I think Afghanistan. After your first tour you returned to London and made yourself a nice little home with the Militia. You must have been quite the catch for them to take you in after doing the Queen's good work. And now here you are, with a Detective Inspector from the Met who technically shouldn't trust you as far as he can throw you what with the way you change allegiances so very easily. Yet, trust you he does, so he brings you to me, his _problem child_."  
  
"Piss off!" Lestrade cried, only half in humor.  
  
"I can help, you know," John said just as Sherlock walked up and over a coffee table to stand in a chrome framed leather chair. He ran his fingers along the bindings of rows of books that resided on shelves above the chair, plucking ones out occasionally that he dropped to his feet. John glanced over at Lestrade who just shrugged and tilted an eyebrow as if to say "Fuck if I know, mate."  
  
In a sudden startling movement Sherlock catapulted out of the chair, clearing the sofa table easily as he skidded through the kitchen and into a dark room at the other end.  
  
"His bedroom," Lestrade helpfully supplied.  
  
"And he's back!" Lestrade joked when Sherlock nearly tripped over a chair in the kitchen and did a hop-skip into the sitting room to regain his balance. Sherlock glared and slammed an armful of books onto the sofa table, struggling to keep the pile from slipping everywhere. John stepped forward and began to tidy. Sherlock took the chance to escape and pull books out from under the sofa and what looked to be the bathroom. Altogether, the sofa table, leather chair, sofa, and bathroom had collected upwards to about 50 books.  
  
John picked two up. "Grimm's Anatomy? The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns and Fairies?" Lestrade began peering through the piles, pulling out any that caught his eyes "Ramayana.... Les Contes des Fées? You have books on myths and fairy tales from all over the world."  
  
"John needs to be primed if he's to be my partner," Sherlock's muffled voice floated out from inside the refrigerator.  
  
"Primed, but- what?" John asked more than a bit confused.  
  
Triumphantly Sherlock hauled a vacuum sealed bag out of the freezer and flipped it out into the sitting room where a pile of books promptly collapsed. Lestrade and John peered at the bag as condensation melted away revealing the prize inside.  
  
"Bloody hell! SHIT! That's a - fairy? How did you get it? Did you _kill_ it?" Lestrade gasped.  
  
"Pixie? Brownie? Tiny.... person?" John tried.  
  
"Irrelevant!" Finished in the kitchen Sherlock pounced on the package and began to cut it open with a pair of scissors, careful to not cut any appendages off of the creature. "I have clamps and scalpels and what-have-you sterilized and waiting on the kitchen table. Let the creature thaw a bit and then we'll see how accurate that anatomy book is."  
  
Sherlock's eyes were blazing with eagerness, their gray color tilt-shifted into cobalt blue with spots of orange. John couldn't look away. If Lestrade said anything when he left neither Sherlock or John heard it.  
  
  
  



End file.
